Death Row
by SilyaBeeodess
Summary: Alexa Reed, a spirited, strong-headed teen, find herself as one of the few survivors in her town during the outbreak. Her daily routine in order to stay alive has become engrained into her very soul, forcing her to struggle between survival and keeping her humanity intact. When your life is hanging by a thread, what will it come down to?
1. Log 1 8:33 PM

They were goners.

I knew that the moment they walked into our small, little town- what was left of it anyway. Tired, scared, only a handful of ammo left on them and guns as their only weapons...it was over before they even stepped foot within the limits. I watched them from the rooftops above, waiting for the undead to pick off the remains. One of the men was smart- shot himself in the head so he wouldn't have to suffer. The other two didn't get by so easily.

You could've helped them! a part of me had said before being silenced by cruel common sense. Saving people was bad; it only gave them room to take and sacrifice you in their place. It happened once. Things just didn't go as planned.

Past sunset, the streets are clear with only two living corpses walking around. Massive blood strains on the concrete road are the only things that tell of the men's existence anymore. I wish the slaughter had been faster; I've come to hate the dark.

It's almost as bad as the noises.

The rest of the dead have spread out through town, their slowly rotting bellies full of human flesh yet their hunger never satisfied. The shots had drawn them here and although the men had arrived at this spot around noon, it had taken quite a few hours of waiting for the area to be cleared enough to be deemed safe. On the bright side, I won't have to go looking for food tonight; there's already a bounty of goods below for me, waiting my inspection. I see the leftover backpacks even from up here and in the light of dim, solar-powered, street lamps.

A low, rumbling sound softly erupts from my stomach. It wants to look in those backpacks too.

I look around with a bird's eye view to make sure nothing else in coming. Content with finding no other threats, I check to make sure my knives are clipped tightly to my sides- how often I've found them trying to slip off- and move quietly off the roof, down the steps, and to the last level. A glass door seperates me from the outside and I take one moment to stare out of it, steeling myself. It's a little cracked from another time before, when a few of the dead saw me and chased me in here. Even once I had raced to the rooftop and shot them from above, the event had frightened me enough to keep me inside this small sanctuary for a full day.

Opening the door a bit, I stick my loaded bow out, gripping it firmly. I make a tiny clicking sound with my tongue, as if I were trying to call a horse or dog to me, grasping the attention of one corpse. It stumbles toward me, not getting very far after I send an arrow through its skull. Only after I take my first step out and my first breathes of night air does the second one notice me. It too far to do any harm and one leg's broken. I could tip-toe over to the packs and be gone before it's even halved the space between us.

I shot it too. The less of them there are the better.

I hate the dark.

Once upon a time, I used to love it- would go outside and sit on the porch swing, listening to music. I would sit around a fire with my mom and step-dad. I would walk through the fields and down the gravel and dirt paths at dusk, and not be back until it was too dark to see.

But that was a long time ago.

I give a silent prayer first- people deserve that much- before taking their things. I wish to thank them; their loss helps me live. Slipping the backs over one arm after stuffing them with bloody, fallen weapons, I head back into the same abandoned building as earlier. I'm not traveling around like this, not now.

"I hate the dark," I hear myself whisper, just to hear a voice. Any voice would do. Darkness meant secrets, and ambushes, and death by those things. So when darkness came, it was safer to bunker down and wait until dawn.

When I find myself on the roof again, I search through the packs, cramming all that I need and want into the largest one. The rifle would be trouble, but it would be good to have it too. And it's in such good condition. It'd almost be a waste to discard it.

I hide it in a special place on the roof. It's mine now, but it stays. It'll be my special weapon if I have trouble on my future runs.

I find food. My mouth salivates and my stomach gives me another reminder that its empty. There's canned goods, but no can opener. Not much else- just tough jerky and crackers. I rip apart the meat with my teeth like a puppy desperate to chew a bone to nothing but splinters. Those men were smart with food. Preserved food is good. But just where is that can opener? Maybe they have a car somewhere with one in it.

Tearing my way through the packs again, I find another thing that makes me smile; water, bottled water. And a nice kind at that- Fiji water. It's always been my favorite, but it was always too expensive before.

It's gulped down slowly. I want to savor it, but I also want to drown my thirst. What else is in the packs? I reach in...

Pictures. Photos of families. Photos of good times and good days. What a silly thing to carry around. Then again, isn't moral important for survival? I don't like them. Attachment is bad in this world. The pictures slip from my hands, carried off by the wind and away from me.

They aren't my memories anyway- only the dead now have rights to them.

_((__**Author's Note: **__This will mainly be updated on my quizzaz account, but there's probably going to be more typos in those versions. It shouldn't be that hard to find me on there- I'm the only person I know with a star wars bounty hunters' guild quiz.))_


	2. Log 2 7:19 AM

The sun beats down upon me as I wake up. I feel so stiff. Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I groan and rub the sleep from my eyes, willing the sun away and for a few more minutes of peaceful rest.

The sounds of the undead put me in a different mood.

I pop up and go to the edge of the roof. There are three of them this time. Stumbling around on decaying limbs. I load my bow. Time for target practice. There's one is my sights- what was once an elderly man now oozing flesh with half his face torn away.

The arrow flies and hits home with a thunk. _One._

The others see their buddy go down. They see me. Soon, their moving toward the building. I load another arrow. _Two._ And again. _Three._

And to think I used to hate living in the middle of nowhere. What things must be like in the big cities, I don't even want to know.

I head out- best to leave bright and early- carrying two packs, one from the men and another that I brought with me. My actual camp is a ways away and will take some walking to get to. Until then, I still have to collect a few more things.

Most of us, the handful of us that are still truly alive, live in what we now call the Outskirts- old farmland out by old roads where there are more cattle then there are people. That's how it used to be anyway. Most cattle were slaughtered and butchered, their meat cooked for venison, at the beginning; the rest were shoved into buildings far from peoples' homes. No one could have them causing so much noise and drawing those things to us. When swarms of them pass our houses, we just stay quiet and hidden, waiting for them to leave- kill only when necessary unless we want all of them upon us.

Most of the time that strategy works. But then there will always be someone who was outside during that time; who only found out when it was too late.

One by one, I collect my arrows; those from last night and from today. When I come upon the last one, my heart skips a beat like it always does these days. It's a boy; not one I knew personally, but one I've maybe seen around school and maybe thought was cute at one point or another. This is the worst part- finding people you know and knowing that they were once people themselves.

Thinking these things as people is bad. It only makes putting them down harder.

Whiskey. That's what I need. And peppermint too. It's an old remedy used for helping sore throats and coughing. I know where the liquor store is and there are a few shops nearby it. Not far from here. Just down a ways and take a right.

My step-dad used to drink a little. We had to cut him off after the outbreak happened.

The buildings lessen some once I'm away from the courtyard, just a little farther.

I freeze. Every part of me freezes. There's so many here still, drawn by the sound of gunfire from yesterday. I should have left. Diving behind a car, I feel panic begin to take over. I close my eyes, waiting, listening...

Nothing. Looking back, I see that they haven't spotted me...not yet. But there's so many. I won't be able to outrun them without getting every single one of them to chase me for sure. And I can get out of breath. They can't.

My eyes dart around, looking for some way to get by without getting caught. I want that medicine and I'm not going to turn tail now. Besides, I don't know if it's like this all around the town or not, so I might as well. I spot the railroad tracks, a bill board, the old carpet shop.

There. The creek that flows by here. The water is nasty and I think it was manmade for sewage purposes, but the water level isn't very high and the dirt walls by it are tall enough for me to move in without being seen. And it will pass close enough by the liquor store.

It my only opportunity. I peak around, waiting, waiting...

The ones nearest turn their backs and I run, my boots clomping against road. When I think they turn back, I either duck behind the nearest object or pretend to limp. I'm so grimy anyway- I haven't taken a bath in a few days- I should look like one of them for sure if I don't smell like them. And we're far enough away from each other that I shouldn't have a problem.

Sighing with relief, I reach the stream, pausing for a moment to get myself to relax in its provided cover. The water comes a little ways up my calf, and I feel my socks and feet get wet through my boots. Annoyed by this, my creek turned trench idea doesn't seem like such a good one anymore. But it's the only one I've got.

I walk, and walk, and walk. It's a big loop around. Sometimes I'll look over the dirt to see if there's a way quickest to the store. For the most part, there isn't.

I step over rocks, steadying myself over the slippery parts. I just about trip over what I think is a sunken log.

As I pass, something catches me around the ankle. I look down sharply and nearly scream, turning pale as I spot a bloated hand sticking from the shallow water. Behind me, a head of one of the undead comes up. In one swift motion, I pull free my machete and chop its head away. The hand falls limp and I make quick work of backing away from it and to the side of the water. My heart beats in my chest; that had been too close for my liking. I grip my machete like a vice. Even though it's just a cheap blade from Wal-Mart and meant for camping, this thing has saved me more times than I can count.

I have to keep moving, and so I do...just out of the water and with my head ducked down, my eyes darting the stream for any sign of unwanted company.

The five undead beings I fight on my way inside the store and the one I kill in it seem like a breeze in comparison to that last experience. What if they're getting smarter? Knowing where to hide and wait for us? I shudder to think about that.

The whiskey I find easily. I do a little dance around cars to make it to the next shop; a Save-a-Lot. To my relief and surprise, there are no corpses moving around inside. Actually, the place is clear. Odd. With a shrug, I look around, finding the peppermint amongst other things. I don't need food. There's plenty now; those men were stocked well enough and there's still some at my place. I still pocket some candy though.

In this world, there might as well be some good things.

Just as that thought comes to mind, I hear a scream.


	3. Log 3 8:04 AM

The scream rackets through my skull and pierces my heart, extracting the fear that I typically keep under lock and key in the confines of my heart. It's a boy's scream- I can tell that much. But where was he? It sounded like it was coming from-

I find myself going pale again. It sounded like it was coming from outside.

I peer out through the large glass windows of the Save-a-Lot. Sure enough, some idiot had come racing around the side of the store and straight into the infested streets. Well, that may explain the lack of zombies hobbling around in here; maybe he came inside thinking it was safe and instead found himself running from a pair of corpses and leading them out the back.

He's dead.

If the undead don't get him, I just might. Because now he's pretty much trapped me here. As if making a swarm of them turn into a feeding frenzy wasn't enough, his screams must've alerted every single one around. I won't be able to go outside without getting caught. It's not such a bad place to be trapped in- there's food and there's water- but I only meant for my stay in town to be a one day thing; get in, get supplies, get out. And besides that, the doors are motion activated and I don't know how to turn them off. I'd have to make a supply closet my home until I deemed it safe enough to leave. And who knows how long that may take.

I send a silent stream of curses to the boy. How dare he- albeit unknowingly- bring me down with him!

He's alone, but that doesn't mean anything. Whenever a group of other survivors just so happen to pass by here, they often don't bring other groups with them. For all I know, he's with those men I saw earlier. And they didn't seem too friendly to me.

I see the panic and fear in his eyes even from here. In moments, they'll have surrounded him. I almost yell for him to run. How dense can you get? Or maybe he's suicidal.

And then, with a flick of his wrist, an axe flies from his hand and into the brain of one of those killers.

Alright...maybe he's not as dense as I thought. He's fast, I'll give him that. But those guys have sheer numbers on their side.

Plucking another axe from his belt, he swings it around in a flurry of motion, the kind only those desperate to survive can make. Another three of the undead go down. Good. He's started making a path.

Yet it seems that every time one falls, another one fills its place. They'll wear him down and he's got nowhere to go.

_But you know where to go_, a little voice in my head says, _maybe...maybe you can run around them while they eat him; use the boy as a distraction so you can escape_. It's true; I've made many different escape routes and hideouts to go to all around town- just for events like this where I need to get somewhere safe and fast.

I was always good at hide-and-seek as a kid. Apparently zombies can't beat me at that game either.

And still another part of me replies, _the boy is young. You can't leave him here to die. He's just a stupid kid!_

Both voices made good sense. I could help the boy live for moral's sake, or I can eradicate any chance of betrayal and use him for my own freedom. So complicated. But as the boy mows down another group of the undead, my decision is clear.

I want him to live.

Adjusting the straps to my packs, I take off outside, yacking a pistol out and firing like a madman. Like it's gonna matter now anyway- what with all the boy's yelling. Zombies fall in an instant, clearing a well enough path for me to run around and reach him. Good thing speed seems to be something foreign to these things.

Once the pistol's out of ammo, I drop it, yanking free my machete. I've still got one more in my bag and there are other guns at my place. With my blade in hand, I slash through the undead without aim. I don't care about making any killing blows as long as they don't touch me or can't follow me. I can weave through them later. So I saw off arms, legs, heads, anything that reaches out to scratch or bite me, slicing away as I go.

"Come on!" I yell upon reaching the boy, holding out my free hand for him to take. He's fallen on his rear.

He stares at me in what I can only guess is numb shock. Finally, he mumbles, "You-You're human..."

Getting irritated, I snarl and pull him up roughly, "Come on!" I repeat.

The zombies start to surround us again. And so, with panic overriding his system once again, I yank the boy across the parking lot. He follows, half-dragging and half-running alongside me. I yell at him again, "Keep up or I'll leave you here!"

That seems to motivate him well enough.

With the swarm following close behind, we reach an abandoned house. No worry about those things getting in there when I'm away; I've seen to that myself. Shoving the boy down into the ever-growing bushes, I start shimmying on the ground and into the crawlspace. He follows right behind me.

Once we're both inside, I push the heavy safe over the entrance, stacking cement blocks on top of it. My muscles ache from the effort and the boy starts helping. "Will this really hold them?" he asks.

I nod, "The entrance isn't big enough for many of them to shove against it all at once and the small door pushes inward. It'll hold long enough."

We hear them moaning, their raspy calls of death coming from jaws longing to rip into our flesh. I pull out a lantern from the corner of the crawlspace and turn it on. The boy starts trembling, curling his legs up against his chest. And for once, I get a good look at him. He seems about thirteen, three years younger than me. His dark hair is greasy and dirty from a good, long time without a bath- far longer than I have gone no doubt. His cheeks are sunken in from hunger and his eyes show obvious fatigue.

How has he lasted this long?

Having caught my breath, my back pressed against the safe so my body will add extra weight to block the door, I turn to him and say, "Next time you're going to do something stupid like that, just make sure you die quietly. You pretty much just rang the dinner bell for every one of those things in town."

He looks down and I see him pull his legs even tighter to his chest, "Sorry..." he mutters.

"Whatever," I mumble back. Keeping my searching glare on him, I ask, "Just who the heck are you?"


	4. Log 4 8:25 AM

"Brett," the boy answers plainly.

I narrow my eyes at him, "I'm gonna need a little more than that to go by, kid."

"Oh," he looks down, "Well, what do you want to know?"

"How you got here and where you group is for starters."

His eyes widen, but he covers it quickly. Too late. That reaction gave him away. "What makes you think I'm not alone?"

"You're too young for one thing, and-"

"I am not!" he huffs, "And if I am, then what about you? You're not much older than me!"

I scowl at Brett, silencing him at once, "Don't ever interrupt me again." He nods. "Good. As I was _saying_, you're face also gave you away."

There's another moment of silence before he looks to me again and says, "I'm not telling you that."

Shrugging, I reply, "That's fine," then add, "but that just means that you'll have to find your own way back- _alone_."

This seems to spark some sense into him. He has no choice but to trust me; he knows that. The alternative means getting left behind with the undead. This is my town. I know how to survive it. And he's just a clueless, lost, little kid.

He stares at me, taking me in. Then he gives a single, slow nod, as if he hardly believes what he's saying, "Alright. I can lead you to them. The others will explain things there."

"Good," I get up so that I'm sitting on my legs, "Then are you ready to go?"

"Are you crazy? Right now!" he exclaims, "Those walkers will get us for sure! We should wait them out!"

"Calm down, kid. I've got more than one escape in this place," as I say this, I reveal the large hole I had created months ago in the crawlspace ceiling and start removing the loose floor boards covering it. I pause in my work as I ask, "Walkers?"

"Yeah, that's what we call them anyway. Biters, walkers, roamers, geeks, creepers...There's a lot of names for them. What do you call them?"

"Typically, by the time I've spotted one," I reply, "dead."

"Oh...nice name."

When the finale floor board is pushed away, I poke out my arm first, wielding my machete, followed by my head. Staying silent for a minute and hearing nothing, I push myself out of the hole and duck before I can hit my head on the dining table above me. Reaching back, I help pull Brett out.

Quieting my voice to a low whisper, I tell him, "Stay down. Those things, those walkers, aren't too smart. They should still be trying to break through the crawl space door, but they won't think to look in here. While they're at it, we can sneak out the window on the other side. After that, you need to keep your mouth shut until we're far enough away. Got it?"

In response, he gets down on his hands and knees to start crawling, letting me lead the way.

We shuffle on the floor for a few minutes, then, finding the window, crawl out. I stop when the boy quits following me, turns his head to look back, and actually goes back inside. Noticing my glare, he mouths, one second. I roll my eyes. Does he really just expect me to wait around for him? I'm not going to wind up some monster's lunch just because he's to chicken to get out here.

Just as quickly as he had gone back inside, he hurries out. Not one moment after, I begin crawling away toward the next house. No point in going around- they'll spot us that way too. Instead we repeat the process of going through the crawlspace and out the other side. In the crawlspace, back out. In the crawlspace, back out. It's agonizingly slow, but as long as we're not seen, it's the best route to take. Once we get so far away, we stand and run.

I don't know how long we keep moving, but we have to practically make a full circle around town. The gunfire and screaming would've drawn most of them- if not all -to our last location, so we only run into a handful of these...walkers. Not like the town's very big anyway and I think over half the population left at the beginning of the outbreak. Brett leads on from there.

When we finally reach our destination, I look up to the old stain-glass windowed church, with plants growing all around the sides of it, and say, "That's it?"

"That's it." He starts walking up the small staircase. I follow, chopping down an approaching walker as I go. "Most of us felt safe here," he adds in a quiet voice.

He knocks to the tune "shave and a haircut, two bits" and steps back. There's the sound of wood being moved- perhaps a plank slid in between the door handles- and one door opens, revealing a small child, a girl, around seven years old. She's in just about as bad shape as Brett is. Her hair is the same shade of deep brown as Brett's, cut just below shoulder length, and her skin is very light, like she hasn't seen the sun in an eternity. The girl wears black sweat pants, tennis shoes, and an oversized pink shirt meant for someone a little older than her. Her face is completely blank as her coffee colored eyes drink in Brett and I.

"Shelby!" someone shouts from inside, another guy by the sound of it. All three of us look in to see a young man rush toward us. He looks like an older version of Brett, only with lighter, longer hair and blue eyes. Small stubble can be seen on his chin. "What have I said about keeping the door shut and staying insi-"

He catches sight of Brett. As soon as he does, he runs at top speed to him. I see both anger and relief in his eyes. "You idiot!" he yells, smacking Brett upside the head, "I told you to stay put! You don't wander off like that, especially without telling us!" Seeing the pained look in Brett's eyes, he gets down and hugs him tightly. "You idiot," he whispers again.

Brett doesn't say anything for a while, but when he does speak, he just says, "I got us food. We needed it. So I left...I'm sorry." Farther back, I see more people enter the main part of the church. None of them besides this new boy seem any older than me.

The new boy looks up, as if finding out that I'm there for the first time. He stands, letting go of Brett, stepping in front of him and Shelby, and placing a hand against the combat knife at his side. His gaze turns to one of suspicion and hate. "I don't know who you are, but I want you out, you hear me? I-"

Before he can say anymore, my machete find a nice place to rest against his throat. I hold his stare, not trusting him anymore than I would the walkers out there. Behind him, the rest of his team point whatever guns they have at me.

Brett steps in between us, "No!" he shouts, "Don't hurt her!"

"We can't trust her! Look at her! She's a threat to all of us!"

"She's not! She saved me." Looking up to the older boy, he repeats, "She saved me."

The former looks my eyes with his again, then replies, "How would you know that she's not with them?" I see him staring at one of my packs. The very one I got from the dead men last night.

"Do you really think that _they'd _help _us_?"


End file.
